


nothing to say but it's okay

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Extra Treat, FIFA World Cup 2014, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miroslav wakes up early, far too early, to the not entirely pleasant feeling of a sharp elbow jammed into his ribs. He opens his eyes: there’s just enough light to see by, trickling in underneath the blinds, but guessing by the pale color of it and the relative quiet, it’s not quite dawn yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing to say but it's okay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kopfkino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kopfkino/gifts).



Miroslav wakes up early, far too early, to the not entirely pleasant feeling of a sharp elbow jammed into his ribs. He opens his eyes: there’s just enough light to see by, trickling in underneath the blinds, but guessing by the pale color of it and the relative quiet both inside and outide his room, it’s not quite dawn yet.

He remembers drifting off the night before, on his back with Thomas spread over top of him like a bony blanket, still talking over the game, arguing with himself over the best bantering possibilities and not minding in the slightest that Miroslav hadn’t replied with more than _mmheh mmm_ in ages. At some point in the night he, or they, must have shifted around, because he’s spooned up not-so-neatly against Miroslav now, back to chest, elbow to ribcage. He twitches again in his sleep, jerking like a dog having a particularly exciting dream, and mumbles something incomprehensible, Radio Müller on 24/7 with no time for commercial breaks. 

Miroslav shifts carefully out of the way of his elbow before he can catch a third jab and takes the opportunity to shift a bit of curly hair out away from his nose before readjusting the covers and settling his arm back around him. Thomas shifts against him and sighs and says, “Seven, _ha_ ,” quite clearly before falling back into muttering. 

Well, they have time, Miroslav thinks fondly, and lets him sleep.

  

An hour or two later Thomas wakes him up again from what he’d meant to be only a light doze, but this time with his mouth on Miroslav’s cock, shockingly hot and slick and wet. Miroslav reaches down blindly, tangling his hand in Thomas’s hair again, and holds him still, trying his best not to arch up off the bed into the sweet perfect pressure of his tongue as Thomas mouths at him, refusing to be foiled. 

It’s hard to talk like this, but with a slight struggle he manages, “Thomas-- God-- ah-- just a moment--” and Thomas leans up on his elbows and lets Miroslav’s cock slide out of his mouth with a desperately obscene noise that has Miroslav’s other hand fisting in the sheets underneath them so tightly he nearly tears them.

“From ballboy to God, that’s a promotion, hey?” Thomas says with a lopsidedly wicked grin. Miroslav just tugs at his hair a little because he can’t manage to scold him out loud when it’s all he can do to keep breathing through that thick burr in Thomas’s voice, the way he always sounds so different, so hot after he’s been sucking cock. “Okay, okay," Thomas laughs, tossing his head a little under Miroslav’s hand, nuzzling playfully at his wrist and pressing swollen lips against his pulse. His hands slide slowly up the outside of Miroslav’s thighs, curving around his hips, thumbs pressing dangerously close to the wet streak Miroslav’s cock left across his stomach, and he shrugs his shoulders up and smiles again. “Good morning to you, too, opa.”

Miroslav laughs too, as much as he can manage, because it’s hard not to share in Thomas’s infectious joy at the worst of times, let alone when they’ve just blazed past the semifinal curse with a day as unbelievably perfect as yesterday had been. Pulling the pillows around behind himself so he can lean against them more easily, he cups Thomas’s face in both hands, smiling down at him when Thomas wrinkles his nose up like a terrible little gremlin. “Good morning, Thomas,” he says.

“Well, now that’s done and taken care of, Herr Klose,” Thomas says, mock-officiously, “do you _mind_ if I get back to work?”

“By all means.” He lets his hands slip back up into Thomas’s wild bed-squashed curls as he dips his head again, promptly swallowing Miroslav back down nearly all the way in one long slide -- it’s easier to hold up to it when he’s braced for it, but only marginally. Thomas’s tongue is long and clever and his hand, when he moves it to the base of Miroslav’s cock, squeezes just right with the perfect pressure and speed. He’s gasping for breath again in seconds, even before Thomas slides a finger between his lips, up alongside his dick, eyes twinkling up at him dangerously as he smirks wide around them.

He doesn’t last after that, no matter how he tries, not with Thomas’s mouth on him and his slicked finger pushing perfectly up inside him, quirking just right. Thomas swallows eagerly at first but follows willingly enough when Miroslav pulls him insistently up by hair and shoulders to kiss him hard and breathless, his cock pressed against Miroslav’s hip twitching hard on its own when Miroslav licks the last of his come out of Thomas’s mouth. 

“ _Well,_ ” Thomas says, “I--” and cuts off with a surprised grunt as Miroslav pushes his thigh between his legs, hands cupping Thomas’s lean ass and tugging him forward encouragingly. “If you insist,” he says in that obnoxious voice again, so Miroslav kisses him again for a bit of quiet, stroking up to the small of Thomas’s back as he rocks against him, slowly at first, then harder, faster, rutting down against Miroslav’s thigh in an uneven staggering rhythm. 

His eyes fall shut as Miroslav keeps kissing him, moaning into his mouth until he spurts between them with one final twitching jerk of his hips, sticky and hot and filthy. “I _was_ trying to keep your bed nice and tidy,” he says after a moment, sliding his hand between them, his fingers smearing four long trails of his come wet across his skin before he cheekily presses them against Miroslav’s lips and into his mouth, salty-bitter against his tongue.

Miroslav sucks them clean without comment, then kisses him again, lightly: his lips, the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t matter,” he says.

“No,” says Thomas. “I suppose not.” He wrinkles his nose again, kisses Miroslav back, and then, thoughtfully, “So -- that’s 1:1. Who’s going to be 7?”


End file.
